Case3288324
by CSI Clue
Summary: House has a new patient: Lisa Cuddy. Language and adult situations.


Case #3288432

Cassie Oliveras handed over the bottle to the woman on the other side of the counter, feeling nervous but covering it well. It had been close, but she'd pulled it off, as usual, and Doctor Tompkins was still clueless, like he always was. An extra undone button on her perky dental hygienist's smock insured that, no problem.

Yeah, it was easy to keep the old boss distracted and away from the drug cabinet. He hardly ever went into it these days anyway, so it was easy to slip extra bottles of pills in the back. Cassie had brought back a few goodies from her last trip to Montreal to see Mom, and now had almost enough prescription specials to make a quick couple of hundred on the side.

Cleaning teeth might be legit, but the pay sucked, and any supplemental income was cool with Cassie, oh yeah. She smiled at the woman, feeling happy as she handed the prescription to her.

"These should help, especially since you passed on the Novocain this time, Ms Cuddy."

"Yeah," came the mumble. Lisa Cuddy popped open the little brown bottle and dropped on in her hand, then shook it again so another pill joined the first one. "All I needed was to be numb and drooling during my observations today. Hell of a time for a filling to fall out, huh?"

"These things happen," Cassie commiserated, already thinking about her stash, and how much she could get for it if she hooked up with Ted . . .

"Got any water?" Cuddy broke into the girl's reverie; starting, Cassie drew a cupful from the water cooler behind the appointment desk, handing it to Cuddy with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Anyway, the filling's as good as new, and we'll see you on your six month check up next time, 'kay?"

"Thanks." Cuddy nodded, popping the pills down and chugging the paper cup. She winced a bit, dropped the cup into the garbage and headed out to her car, glad to be outside again, and away from the unpleasantness of the last hour. Tompkins had managed to fit her in when he'd heard about her filling; for that she was grateful, but now it was time to get to work and forget about the ache in her upper jaw.

She slipped behind the wheel, did up her seatbelt and took a breath, trying to compose herself for facing Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Gregory House slouched behind his desk, musing over the merits of lunch in the cafeteria or out along the walkway to the clinic. Both had appeal, and it was a tough choice.

Either way House knew he could con Wilson into coming along; that part was easy. If they stayed in the cafeteria, they could play a few rounds of Dish the Dirt, with particular emphasis on who was fooling around, who was having trouble getting it up, who was being audited by the IRS and who had a new tattoo and where. Gossip mongering could be interesting, especially since House had a nice bit of info on one of his Fellows he wanted to share.

On the other hand, lunch along the walkway had a particular appeal that neither he nor Wilson could resist. It was cold most of the time and they usually had to wear their coats, but ah the benefits . . .

House made his decision and flipped out his cell phone, hitting speed dial. Wilson didn't answer until the third ring, which meant he'd been consulting. That and his exasperated tone confirmed it. "Yes?"

"Thinking of catching lunch outside today."

"How hard is the wind blowing?" came the instantly interested reply. House smirked, peeking out the window behind him.

"A sweetly gusty breeze. Enough to send kites dancing and flags flapping."

"I'll be there. And bring your own lunch, House—I'm not paying for yours today."

House made a face as he snapped the phone shut and rose to his feet. Chase and Foreman were busy with the latest patient's MRI and Cameron was on clinic duty, so for the moment his world was fine. Carefully he made his way out, shooting one curious glance down the hall towards Cuddy's dark office before heading the dubious delights of the cafeteria.

Twenty minutes later, he was parked on the Howard X. Murgatroyd memorial bench under the cement walkway to the hospital lecture halls. The seat was cement and cold most of the time, but House didn't mind it too much as he chewed on his sandwich. He looked up along the walkway, pleased that it was made of iron grille, and that the mini skirt had made a fashion comeback among the students.

Wilson showed up, sliding onto the area next to him with a wince. "Thanks for warming it up," he groused. House spared him a lofty glance, and turned back to the entertainment above them.

"You and your petty demands—you want warmth, look upwards my son, to the spectacle of long legs and the occasional flash of panty. THAT'S what generates heat."

"Too true," Wilson agreed with a sheepish expression. He pulled out a Styrofoam box and undid the lid to reveal a beautiful little antipasto. House stared, then looked at his own sandwich of wilted lettuce and cold bologna. He pursed his mouth, but Wilson shook his head firmly. "No. No trade, especially since you've already taken a bite of yours."

"Fine," came the sulky response. "Like I even CARE about your stupid salad."

"It's not salad, it's antipasto," Wilson corrected, carefully pulling out a fork from his lab coat pocket, "With Sicilian olives and fresh provol—" House cut him off with a cane jab to his foot and Wilson started to glare when House motioned up with his chin. Following him, Wilson glanced up in time to catch a flash of thighs under a fluttering lab coat and skirt. Both men gave collective little sighs of appreciation and Wilson waited until the student had moved away before finishing, "—one and salami."

"You're not even Italian."

"And you're full of bologna," Wilson shot back, "in more ways than one."

"Oh ha-ha, you really should take your act to the Catskills," House sighed. "Such cutting wit, such withering—"

The sudden clack of high heels cut short his retort; both he and Wilson looked up at the walkway to see Cuddy standing there, her gloved hands on the rail as she leaned over to glare at them.

"My God, it's only eleven fifteen—taking lunch a little EARLY, aren't you?" came her grieved tone. Wilson hunched his shoulders guiltily, but House threw his back and smirked up at her.

"It's not lunch, it's nutrition break. Wilson and I like to follow the FDA recommendations—set an example."

"Now you're just blowing air up my skirt," Cuddy growled; immediately an obedient gust obliged, whipping her hemline high, and billowing the material in a floral flounce around her hips. Stunned, both doctors stared up, Wilson looking like a bunny in the headlights; House looking like Christmas had just come early.

Cuddy let go of the railing to sweep her hands over the flutter of her skirt, her gestures both feminine and forceful. "Damn it, so THAT'S your little Peeping Tom game. Greeeeeeeeat. Hope you got an eyeful."

Ever tactful, Wilson said nothing, but the pink flush over his cheeks betrayed him. House blinked, savoring the moment, then cocked his head. "Could you do that again? I'm not sure I had time to really appreciate the erotic irony of the moment."

Cuddy's hand gesture was both elegant and crude; she could only spare one upthrust middle finger since her other hand was anchoring her hem against yet another breeze. "I'm having that damned bench removed!"

"You can't do that, it's a memorial!" House protested. "Howard X. Murgatroyd willed this bench to be right here."

"Just because he was a philanthropist who willed thousands of dollars to the Gynecology department does not mean . . ." Cuddy trailed off as realization struck her. "Oh God. That old PERVERT!" She exploded. Cuddy spun, marching off across the walkway, heels loud and menacing.

House watched her go, then turned to look at Wilson, who was digging into his antipasto with renewed intensity. "Did you see that?"

"In the words of Sergeant Shultz, I saw nothing," Wilson intoned rapidly. House managed a half-grin and settled back on the bench, sandwich forgotten.

"Of course not. You never saw the sinfully wicked sight of Doctor Cuddy's sleek, tennis-toned thighs encased in mauve stockings held up by a purple garter belt with matching panties. TINY matching panties."

Wilson groaned a little, shooting House a familiar 'I-hate-you' look. "I hate you."

"What? I'm not the one in denial, nooo, not me. I relish the memory of my boss's delicate lingerie displayed for me by a roguishly convenient gust of breeze."

"What's the point? She's going to castrate us," Wilson pointed out glumly. "And she'll get the bench removed too."

"Never fear—balls and bench will remain where they are. I'm a little more interested in why Cuddy was staggering."

"She was staggering?" Wilson looked up at House, who nodded.

"Slightly. And that was before she started yelling at us. Interesting."

"But it's not even eleven thirty in the morning. And Cuddy doesn't drink—at least not on the job," Wilson murmured, staring at his antipasto and deliberately picking out the provolone first. House rose up and tucked his half-eaten sandwich into his pocket. He tamped his cane on the ground and pursed his mouth for a long moment.

"Both true. I'll leave you to keep an eye on things here while I indulge in a little cautious surveillance."

"What, you're going to go STALK her now? Cuddy's already on the warpath, House—aggravating her further at the moment is a BAD idea."

House ignored him and began to lumber off purposefully, heading back towards the hospital.

Cuddy felt . . . relaxed. Oh sure, she was still angry about House and Wilson out on the stupid bench peeking under skirts like a pair of high school boys. And she needed to talk to Plant Facilities about moving the damned bench as well . . .

She absently rubbed her cheek as she looked over her schedule, noting a walk-through on Doctor Peranja's first year lab, a visit to the cancer ward and a policy committee meeting. All boring—well maybe not the kids, but the rest of the day certainly wasn't a thrill a minute. Cuddy sighed, and flexed her long fingers, taking a mental inventory.

Her bra was too tight, she decided.

Well, there was an easy fix for that—moving deftly, she reached behind her and unhooked it through the sleeveless dress, then carefully slithered each strap off, finally pulling the purple lace bra out from her cleavage.

"Ta dah!" she chirped to her office, amused at her own skill. Carefully she folded it and looked around. Her purse was too small to hold it, so Cuddy carefully dropped her bra into the drawer of her desk, feeling much better now. Not as . . . constrained.

She picked up the phone, dialing Plant Facilities. As it rang, Cuddy looked up to see House barge into her office; imperiously she held up a hand to stall him as she spoke.

"This is the Dean calling to speak to Mr. Cosnofski, please. Thank you."

House looked at the palm facing him; the long spread fingers and manicured nails. With a growl he dropped himself into the chair in front of the desk and scowled at her. Cuddy looked smug, then spoke again. "Mr. Cosnofski. You need to move the Howard X. Murgatroyd bench away from the lecture hall walkway of the hospital. I saw two BOYS playing around on it."

House pulled an affronted face; Cuddy looked daggers at him and continued into the phone. "Yes, I know it's a memorial bench. I wasn't aware that it weighs over six hundred pounds but this is a safety issue. Mr. Murgatroyd wouldn't have wanted anyone to . . . mis-USE his legacy I'm sure."

When she'd received grumbling assurances from the Plant Facilities supervisor Cuddy hung up and looked at House with annoyance. He glared right back at her.

"Thanks a lot. You ruined a perfectly good lunch spot for no reason," House complained. Cuddy rose and leaned over her desk, snarling a little.

"I have plenty or reasons starting with public decency and sexual harassment, House. Find another way to play your little upskirt games without bringing students and patients into it, hmmm?"

House rose up and leaned in himself, about to make a withering reply when a single glance downward threw him off track. He blinked, but Cuddy had already drawing back and checking her watch. "Damn, already off-schedule. House, get to work—" And with that she sauntered around him and out of her office, her hips rolling a bit more than usual, her stride a little looser than normal. House turned his head to watch her go, his frown deepening.

Carefully he straightened up and walked around to sit at her desk, deep in thought. He glanced over her blotter, noting her daily schedule. He fished around in her trash can. He opened her desk drawer. He blinked again, and slowly drew out the purple lace bra, letting it dangle from his fingers like a magician's colorful scarf before bringing it to his nose and inhaling.

Still slightly warm and deliciously Cuddy-scented.

With a little whine of frustration, House debated not returning the bra to the drawer, but finally did, reluctantly. He spoke to himself in a low tone. "I'll be back for YOU later—first, I need to find out what's going on with your residents and their manager."

"Quick consult!" House snapped, limping into the Diagnostic office. Chase looked up from his notations while Cameron finished pouring her coffee and Foreman closed his file. All three of them turned expectant faces towards the whiteboard. House picked up a pen and began printing. "Female in her late thirties, type A personality shows up to work staggering. No evidence of alcohol, no history of drug abuse."

"Minor stroke?" Chase offered.

Foreman nodded. "Or she might have strained a muscle."

"No complaints of leg pain," House muttered.

"Has she been tested for any toxins or drugs? You say she's got no history, but you yourself always say everybody lies—" Cameron pointed out. House gave a shake of his head.

"Patient isn't even aware she has a problem—yet. Any suggestion of tests would be considered suspiciously and probably denied."

"You need to question her further then, get a full medical history before we can do much else," Foreman smoothly announced. "Anything before the facts is strictly speculation, House."

"Good point," House agreed, reluctantly. "So—what's on the table for today?" The three of them looked at each other in surprise; House waved at the folders on the table. "Case?"

"What about your staggering patient?"

"I'm giving her a little time to develop a few more symptoms. She'll be fine," House commented testily. "Not our primary concern at the moment."

They smoothly went through the patient file on the table, sorting through options and agreeing on a series of tests; House refrained from checking his watch, but breathed a sigh when Cameron, Chase and Foreman finally left on their appointed tasks. He slipped out and made his way out the front door and across the causeway to the labs, Cuddy's schedule still clear in his head.

It only took a few minutes to reach Peranja's lab; House peeked in the window on the door to confirm that Cuddy was there. Cautiously he slipped in, glad that there was a fair amount of student activity to cover his arrival. People had paired off or were in groups of threes at the various tables while gurneys of needles and IV packets stood along the back walls. Doctor Perjana, a small Indian man was moving around watching the students with their intravenous work.

"Less pressure, less pressure . . . " he murmured in his soft, accented English. House kept close to the wall, grateful that there were nearly forty students between him and his intended subject. Cuddy was seated in one of the chairs, watching one student attempting an intravenous injection on another. She was rubbing her shoulders a little, and he could see a feverish glitter to her eyes.

"No, no, you're just jabbing now and that's going to hurt. Here, give me that—" came her impatient tone. Watching intently, House observed Cuddy wrap the rubber tourniquet around her thin upper arm, moving swiftly. She tugged it tight, then picked up one of the sterile needles, flicking the air bubbles out of it with the ease of long practice. In one quick glide, she'd deftly hit her vein, squeezed the plunger and emptied three cc's of saline into her arm, laughing softly as she did so.

"See? All in the wrist. If I can do it to myself, it should be easy for you three to do each other, right? Ooh that's cold—Arvid, you didn't just pull this batch from the freezer, did you?"

Looking alarmed, Perjana stepped forward, reaching for a cotton swab. "Doctor Cuddy, please! We don't encourage students to practice on themselves."

"Well of course not," she agreed, flashing white teeth at him while he quickly bandaged the crook of her arm, "But honestly, it's just a little prick, and believe me, I'm used to dealing with those."

House scowled, and stepped forward, feeling vaguely insulted. He loomed over the students, who moved out of his way. Cuddy looked up and met House's gaze, looking a little surprised. "House."

"Cuddy. Nice audition for the part of a junkie—I especially liked your tie-off work there; very slick. Practice much?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she replied with a careless laugh. Rising, Cuddy looked over at Perjana and gave him a knowing nod, then picked up her clipboard and began to walk out. House caught her elbow and guided her along, feeling the tiny wobble in her step as he escorted her to the door while behind them the students got back to business.

"You're high, Cuddy," he muttered.

"What? Oh go to hell, House, I'm perfectly fine!" she snapped as they stepped into the empty hallway. He trapped her against the wall and stared deeply into her eyes, his own narrowing a bit.

"Dilated pupils and a stagger in your stride, not to mention you're braless, which isn't really a symptom since I completely approve of that last one but it's definitely unusual behavior for you."

"I KNEW we'd get around to my boobies sooner or later!" she sighed in exasperation. "Damn it House, you can go commando any day of the week and nobody gives a damn, but me, nooooo, one day without the push-up and it's 'check out the rack' time!"

"Blame my gonads and testosterone later, okay? What did you take?" House demanded firmly. Cuddy glared at him, one long dark curl falling over her shoulder.

"Pfft! Two words—Naaa-thing. No drugs, no booze, not even cold medication. I don't know where you got this weird idea that I'm on something but you need to get your manly ass back down to your office and let me do my job. I'm FINE."

Pushing hard against his arm, Cuddy managed to move it and head down the hall, hips swaying in a slightly exaggerated fashion. House watched her go, perplexed enough to stand silently for a moment. Then to himself—

"Manly?"

Wilson looked up and slid his cell phone out of sight, tucking it under the stack of files on his desk in the corner. The playroom was busy, with kids grouped around a few of the low tables and over at the video game consoles, nesting in the vinyl beanbags. A few others were making each other laugh by the Karaoke machine, belting out Kidz Bop tunes to each other in impossibly high voices.

Most of the patients were in hospital gowns; a few were bald, and others were pulling along IV stands.

Cuddy was standing in the doorway, beaming at the scene, and Wilson watched her saunter in, a somewhat loopy smile on her face. One of the littler children ran up and hugged her; Cuddy hugged back, brushing the girl's face and smiling at her.

"Hey Renata; how are you today?"

"Good," the child responded, clearly not interested in the topic. She tugged on Cuddy's hand. "Are you gonna dance with us?"

"Oh I don't know, sweetie . . . I'm a little klutzy right now," Cuddy confessed in a low voice, shooting Wilson a quick look. He pretended to be engrossed in a file, ignoring her; Cuddy smiled and allowed herself to be dragged towards the Karaoke machine, giggling a little. Wilson peeked over the edge of the file to watch.

Apparently this was an old game between the two of them; Cuddy covered her eyes and the child made some selection on the machine, laughing loudly. She pulled Cuddy's hands away and the low strains of music began to play. Most of the kids drifted away, but a few were watching as Cuddy picked up the microphone and swayed a little.

"I've heard people say that too much of anything is not good for you, baby . . . Oh no. But I don't know about that. There's many times that we've loved . . . we've shared love and made love . . . it doesn't seem to me like it's enough," Cuddy spoke in her deepest tone, her most sincere voice.

Wilson blinked, and moved. Reaching for the cell phone he hit the speed dial, crouching behind the open file folder in front of him. Cuddy broke into song.

"Whoahhh oh whoahhhh, my daaarling I . . . can't get enough of YOUR love baby . . . " She warbled.

The phone connection clicked.

"Yeah?"

"She's here. Singing Barry White."

"Say WHAT?"

"Can't Get Enough of Your Love, apparently. I'm getting an erection."

"You sick monkey. I'll be there."

Wilson clicked the phone shut and risked a peek over the top of the file; Cuddy was doing great. Looser than usual, definitely not nearly as . . . uptight. She was swaying in time to the music now, getting into it, looking damned good if truth be told. Wilson wasn't into brunettes, not the way House was, but at the moment the sight of Cuddy dancing was pretty enticing.

Then she held a long arm out, beckoning him. Wilson froze.

"Me?" he croaked. As if there was anyone else in the corner with him. Cuddy nodded and kept singing, her grin flashing out. Next to her, Renata was hopping with glee, and a few other kids were bounding around. Wilson shook his head, but Cuddy strode forward, still singing, and reached out, taking his hand.

Reluctantly Wilson allowed himself to be tugged over to the machine, feeling his face flush red. Cuddy laughed, and slipped an arm around his waist, urging him to sway to the music, bumping her hip against his playfully. Wilson struggled to hang onto his dignity for a few seconds more, then gave in and bumped back, falling into an easy rhythm with Cuddy.

They danced. Wilson was amused at how easy, how naturally it came back to him. Cuddy passed the microphone to Renata and shifted, sliding into his arms more fully as the song began to crescendo around them. Some of the patients were clapping now; others were getting the giggles at the sight of the two doctors doing the Hustle all over the Dance Revolution mat on the floor.

Cuddy was laughing again, her cheeks flushed. "Hidden talents, Jimmy Wilson—where did YOU learn to dance?"

"Ah-ah," he chided with a dimpled smile. "In the words of the Go-Go's, my lips are sealed."

"I could unseal them," she chortled and before Wilson quite figured it out, Cuddy kissed him, her hot, generous mouth happily pressing to his. He closed his eyes, stunned and aroused, kissing her back until the chorus of 'Ooooooooooooooohs!" from the patients made him break off hastily.

House stood in the doorway of the playroom.

His expression wasn't hard to read, even for a kiss-befuddled oncologist; the flinty squint, the scowling mouth, the hard square set of the shoulders. Wilson jerked away, the back of his hand coming up to wipe his mouth. Cuddy glanced over at House and frowned prettily.

"House. Again. Are you following me?"

"Just watching you play Doctor," he groused, striding forward and batting toys out of his way with his cane. He shot Wilson a withering glare. "When I asked you to keep an eye on her, I didn't have this close in mind."

"It was Barry White," Wilson offered in meek defense. House considered that and gave a sigh, then turned back to Cuddy.

"You're coming with me. Something is wrong with you, even if you don't see it, Cuddy."

"I'm fine," she snapped once again, but Wilson shook his head and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Leese, you're not. Your pupils are dilated and your behavior is . . . a little erratic," he finished kindly. "You know Greg's going to keep pestering you until you give in, so just do it now and get it over with."

Cuddy shot each man a mulish expression, then gave a sigh and waved her hands in the air. "Okay. Let's get this done, because I'm NOT missing the policy committee meeting this afternoon. And I feel fine."

"Leave the feeling to me—" House muttered with mock salaciousness. Over Cuddy's shoulder he shot Wilson a last, concerned look before walking out of the playroom with her. Wilson watched them go as the beginning bars of "All-Star" began to roll out of the karaoke machine.

He glanced down at the pink smear on the back of his hand and licked his bottom lip.

House guided Cuddy back to her office, keeping an eye on her as they traveled without speaking. She ignored him, but the tight set of her shoulders and the little waggle of her bottom amused House; the clear dichotomy of her personality magnified in that by whatever she was taking. He herded her towards the clinic and found the first room empty; courteously House gestured her in before him, taking one last quick leer at her rounded bottom before following her in and locking the door.

Cuddy turned and braced one hip against the exam table as she crossed her arms. House leaned against the door, making no move to come closer as he studied her from head to foot. After a few second she blinked, feeling acutely self-conscious. "What?"

"Just weighing my options here. The UA with a full tox screen would probably get back faster, but a blood panel would be more accurate for the precise chemical in your system. Why did you kiss Wilson?" came his low, serious voice.

Cuddy looked smug. "I didn't kiss Wilson. I kissed Jimmy. And why do YOU care anyway? It's not as if he's going to take it seriously."

"Semantics—you kissed the Chief of Oncology AND my best friend, and I DON'T care but I'm curious as to your motive. He's not your type." As he spoke, House fished out a specimen bottle from the cabinet under the sink and neatly labeled it before handing it to Cuddy. She made a face, reluctantly taking it from him. For a second she studied his printing.

"_Urgent: full toxicology screen/all pertinent panels Patient T. Ramp, C/O Diagnostics G. House_—subtle. Tell me how you REALLY feel, Greg."

"You need a pseudonym—unless you'd LIKE me to put it under your real name. Won't that start the gossip mill a churning, especially when the report comes back with some interesting chemical breakdowns."

Cuddy clenched the bottle more tightly in her fist, scowling fiercely. "There's nothing there."

"Beg to differ—you're talking at the local expert in pharmaceutical fun, remember? I'm thinking opiate—are you in pain? Where were you this morning?" House asked softly, watching her. It was hard not to reach out a hand to steady Cuddy; she was listing a little to the right. She tossed the specimen container from one hand to the other, her catches a little clumsy.

"I went to the dentist, if you must know. Had a filling replaced because the old one fell out after I chewed on my toast this morning. No big deal, I didn't even take Novocain because I knew I needed to be clear for the meeting this afternoon . . . " she trailed off, closing her eyes for a moment. "Is it warm in here?"

"Feel free to take your clothes off," House murmured, "So, no Novocain—are you sure?"

"Yeasss. I specifically requested not to be numbed out, and I'm not," Cuddy replied, her patience wearing thin. House leaned closer and caught her chin in his grip, tipping her face up and squeezing. Her mouth opened and he leaned down to sniff her breath.

"Nitrous oxide?"

"No gas. Believe it or not, some of us can get by on over the counter pain killers, House," she commented. He hunched his shoulders a little at that, and Cuddy laughed, tossing her head back. "Sorry, that one was below the belt, I know."

"Laugh it up, Lisa Chuckles, but I know I'm looking at something that doesn't make sense. Even if you didn't have anything injected or inhaled, you've still got something in your system that's making you slightly loopy."

"Loopy? I feel fine. Better than fine, in fact—good enough to dance with Jimmy and I could have done it aaallll night loooooonnng, Greg—" she drawled out in a sultry tease as she leaned closer. The hot gleam in her eyes startled him, and House froze for a moment. Cuddy rubbed noses with him, purring a little, then pulled back. "So I'll let you have the UA, but no blood this time, and when you get back a clean panel, you're going to do four more hours this week in clinic."

"And when I'm right?" he couldn't help but ask; his own gaze a bright, merciless blue. Cuddy's smile broadened and she cocked her head.

"In the impossible event that you, the great and powerful Greg House are right, well . . . . what do you want?" she asked in a tone loaded with no limits now, a clearly provocative question. It was like her voice in his fantasies of her; the one in his restless erotic dreams that left him either aching or wet in the morning.

"Oooh I could want quite a bit," came his honest reply. "Most of it in direct violation of sexual harassment laws and decency standards here at PPTH. How are you at pole dancing?"

Instead of making a face or storming off, Cuddy pursed her pretty mouth and seemed to consider the question. She dropped her gaze and looked down at her feet a moment. "Depends on the pole."

House let his gaze drop too, focusing on the little green plastic container in Cuddy's grasp and feeling slightly breathless. He was used to angry Cuddy and exasperated Cuddy; he'd seen her hurting and preoccupied and tired, but this new blatantly flirtatious Cuddy was a force to be reckoned with. It was clearly a symptom too, but dangerously intriguing.

He gestured with his chin to the cup. "Hit me with your best shot, and we'll see who ends up on the losing side of this proposition, Doctor Partypants."

Cuddy shook her head slightly and headed for the adjoining bathroom, locking the door behind her with a loud click. House waited, wondering if Cuddy might have paruresis; normally that would be a safe bet for a woman as uptight—

The sounds from the other side of the door made it clear she didn't and House wondered if this too, was because of the drugs. When Cuddy emerged a moment later, she scowled at him.

"I wasn't expecting to hand deliver anything."

"Let's just chalk it up to my scrupulous dedication to the case," House replied. "Why did you take your bra off, by the way? Not that I don't appreciate the bounce in your step and all."

"God you're irritating," Cuddy brushed by him and out the exam room door. She didn't look to see if he was following as she made her way back to her office. Gritting her teeth made her new filing ache again, and absently Cuddy fished in her purse for the bottle of Tompkin's Ibuprofen, shaking another one out and swallowing it dry. It tasted awful, and she pulled out one of her bottles of water from her stash in her bottom desk drawer, washing away the aftertaste.

Diagnosticians were simply a pain in the ass, she decided. Most medical specialists had some strain of prima donna to them; that was a given, but House took medical evaluation and analysis to new levels of irritation above and beyond his own personality. The audacity of HIM accusing her of taking drugs!

She'd never done drugs—well, not any more than any other Med student, Cuddy mentally amended to herself. The days of No-Doz for all nighters, washed down with coffee; the Sominex to repair the sleep cycle; an occasional joint back in the day, when it was your ticket to a varied social life . . . thank God she'd passed on the cocaine fad of the Eighties. Cuddy had worked enough in the ER back then to know exactly how stupid that shit made people. Not the drug itself too often, but the actions and consequences afterwards.

Coke might have been the hit of the party, she remembered, but there was always a morning after.

Sighing, Cuddy leaned back and allowed herself a moment to remember. God, the Eighties. Back then she'd done the Jane Fonda workouts, and ran for miles, just the way Jim Fixx had. She'd dutifully chugged lecithin and yogurt, did her hair big and wore the world's shiniest lip gloss. She still had her leg warmers in a bureau drawer somewhere, along with a few black rubber bracelets. Cuddy smiled more deeply, and closed her eyes.

Dancing with Jimmy—THAT was Eighties. Given the way the man moved, he'd probably shaken his booty to Hall and Oates a few times. The image of pretty boy James Wilson with his hair gelled, and his coat sleeves pushed up on his forearms made her chuckle. Oh yeah. He might have been a preppy, but she could just picture him in his sweet puppy geekiness, mooning after Daryl Hannah or Molly Ringwald.

Cuddy giggled more loudly now. Who would House have had the hots for in the Eighties? Brooke Shields? Early sleazy Madonna, or maybe Bo Derek more likely, she decided. Yeah, House was the sort to rank his hotties by how many pictorials she'd done. The thought not only continued to amuse her, but it brought forth the image of House dancing around in his boxers—like Tom Cruise in that really old movie . . . God, what was it called?

Oh yeah, Risky Business. That certainly fit House to a damned T. Cuddy sighed, wondering if his claims of patronizing prostitutes were true. It would be like him to compartmentalize sex, divorcing it from affection. She couldn't see him cruising street corners though—he probably knew some service to call. That would be more his style, ordering up some hooker the way he'd put in a call for pizza. The thought should have depressed her, but it didn't. Somewhere deep between her thighs came a naughty flare of arousal.

Oh yeah, sex with House. He'd be fun to tease; it would be such a power rush to work him up to a frenzy and see all his vaunted intellect take a back seat to good old-fashioned lust. Abruptly Cuddy gave a sigh and shifted in the chair a little, realizing she was turned on more than she wanted to admit. She'd thought of doing House before—she had fantasies, she was normal—but this was not her normal Tuesday mindset. She should be looking over the policy committee meeting notes, not thinking about blowing Greg House until he groaned her name and lost his load---

"I'm soooo horny," Cuddy said out loud, and the slurred sound of her words echoed off the walls. She opened her eyes and looked around, her cheeks hot; thank God nobody heard her. Carefully she pushed herself up out of the chair and took a few wobbly steps to the sofa, dropping onto it, grateful to be able to lie down.

For just a few minutes, yeah. Just taking a quick nap.

Cuddy stretched out, her skirt giving ground as she lifted her hands over her head and sighed deeply, closing her eyes once more.

Policy committee. Needed to focus on policy. Not House. House in his boxers could wait until later. House in his boxers. Or out of them . . . God knew he was hung, if rumor and discreet peeking were both accurate.

No. Focus! Keep on the job! She warned herself, shifting her hips a little as the pang of arousal throbbed through her again. Stop thinking about . . . IT. Not the time for mentally undressing the Head of Diagnostics and contemplating the meat cane---

Cuddy chortled. Damn—the meat cane. Hell of a line; too bad she'd never get the chance to use it--- unbidden she writhed a little more, whimpering a bit.

"Am I interrupting nap time?" came a low voice. Startled, she blearily opened her eyes to see House staring from her office doorway. He stepped in and closed it behind himself, never taking his eyes from her. Cuddy propped herself up on one elbow and looked him over.

Damn—there it was, too. The big MC! She giggled. House lurched over. "Cuddy---"

"I HAVE to know, Greg. This is really, really important, okay?" Cuddy throatily whispered. House bent down awkwardly, his concentration focused on her dilated gaze; her long thighs now exposed; her unexpectedly . . . naughty . . . smile.

The woman was totally looped, he realized.

"Back in the Eighties, Greg. Who the hell did you used to whack off to?"

Taken slightly aback, House blinked, and tried to gather his thoughts. "Er—let's see--Heather Thomas. Shannon Tweed. Tawny Kitaen. The Barbi twins, rowr!" he replied, feeling proudly embarrassed as the names rolled off his tongue, even after all these years. Cuddy propped her head up on her hand, elbow on the sofa, her unfocused eyes wide. She'd lost her hair clip, and her tousled locks were spilling over her shoulders, giving her a sleepy look.

"Twins?"

"Twins. Long legged blondes with love casabas out to here," House gestured expansively. Cuddy snorted.

"Figures. Yeah, why not go for twice as much?" she mumbled, and tried to sit up. Cuddy slipped though, her arm giving way, and flopped face forward, head hanging down over the edge of the sofa, long dark hair in a beautiful waterfall of black-brown lustriousness. Her laugh was muffled. House reached out to touch one of the delicate baby curls at the base of her neck as he cleared his throat.

"Ooookaaaay, it's nap time for the big Dean of medicine now—"

Inelegantly he bent and slowly rolled Cuddy over towards the wall so that she was face up again, and then gently brushed her hair away from her closed eyes. She was humming softly now, smiling to herself as she seemed to . . . wriggle on the sofa. The skirt of her dress was bunching up, showing off her long thighs; almost at the top of her stockings now, revealing the lacy clips of her garters.

House stared. Cuddy was the only woman he knew who actually wore such things to work, and that always added fuel to the fire; particularly the fire down below. He was a man; he never denied a susceptibility to the elements of sexual fantasy and by God, a garter belt certainly qualified. Cameron could keep her girly Hanes panty sets, and Stacy had had her moments in Maidenform, but compared to Cuddy in the satin strings of La Perla . . . no contest.

He swallowed and forced himself to look back at her face, flinching a little at her open, blearily amused eyes. "See something you like?"

"This is a trick question, right?"

"It's certainly one you're not answering—not in so many words that is," Cuddy laughed. Her voice was like smoky honey, and House gave a sigh as he scratched the back of his head.

"Are you always this aggressive when you're stoned?" he murmured. "Not that it's a BAD thing—" House hesitated as Cuddy lightly pinched a fold of her skirt and began to playfully pull it up.

"Are you always this dense when you're not?" she countered. "My God, you've been peeking at me for years, so why not go for the full-out eyeful, Greg? Get a free look at my undies while you can."

She moved to yank up her skirt, but House caught her thin wrist, his fingers easily encircling it and pinning it down against her thigh. Carefully he shifted so that he could glare down into Cuddy's face. She blinked up at him, smirking, her hair spread out over the sofa pillow. Beautiful.

"Lisa, for the record, I've done and will continue to do many bad things, but molesting drugged administrators isn't one of them. If you want to give me a lingerie show after hours when you're clean and sober, I'm SO there, but right now it's all about the naughty chemicals in your system that are ratcheting up your libido . . . "

House paused significantly as something clicked deep in his mind.

Cuddy laughed, and lifted a leg, sliding it up along the outside of his hip. "Libeeeeeeeedooooooo," She sang out, and House bit back a little groan. Gently he reached back and caught her ankle, pushing her leg back down. He straightened up, fished in his pocket for his cell phone and hit the first speed dial number on it. Cuddy clumsily pulled herself up to a sitting position, her hands moving to touch House's shirt front. He twisted, trying half-heartedly to avoid her as the phone at his ear rang. Finally—

"Hello?"

"What were the three most popular date or club drugs of the Eighties?" House demanded, pausing as Cuddy ran long fingers along his fly. Wilson's voice came back in his ear, amused and light.

"Well, those would be cocaine, amyl nitrite and quaaludes. Do I win a prize?"

"Sure. I'll download you a Barry White album," House snapped, closing the phone. He glanced down, feeling his stomach tighten with instant desire as Cuddy leaned forward, pressing her mouth against his undamaged thigh. Her words were slightly muffled on the denim, as she slid her hands around his hips.

"Gotttttttcha----"

"Okay, Lisa, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but you have to stop humping my leg," House moaned. "I need to call the lab and have them screen for methaqualone and I can't DO that if you're . . . down there."

Cuddy tipped her face up to him, and the long lean lines of her throat gleamed damply. "Down where?" she laughed, her hands going around his hips to squeeze his ass. Just as she'd always suspected it was pretty damned tight, despite all the sitting and lounging he did. Maybe not buns of steel, but something similarly hard; Cuddy concentrated, trying to remember Mohr's scale and finally chirped up.

"You've got buns of Feldspar, you know that?"

"What?" House looked down, completely nonplussed. He pressed the heel of a hand to her forehead and pushed ever so lightly, staring again into her eyes and manfully ignoring the easy view of her damp cleavage. "Where did you get the quaaludes, Cuddy? And why did you take them?"

"Stop saying that!" she whined, pouting up at him. "In case you forgot it House, Quethamalone is a schedule one drug and therefore illegal and . . . stuff. Ooooh, you have a boner."

"Stop that!" House snapped, trying to shuffle away from her caressing fingers, but not trying very hard. Cuddy smoothed her palm up the length of the ridge along his fly, cooing a little.

"Woooooow—I'm surprised Stacy wasn't the one with a limp."

House gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to just stand there and let her keep stroking. God it had been a long time since any woman had palmed his package, and this was Cuddy, the ultimate bitchgoddess; the secret lust of his life. Carefully he lifted his cane and used it to push her hand away, cursing his nobility.

"Okay, no more naughty touches, Cuddy. You need to lie down and go to sleep for a while."

"I'm fiiiine," she protested, still focused on his straining ridge. "All of me feels good. Want to feel?"

"More than you will ever know," House admitted wryly, "But you're incapacitated and therefore not responsible for your words or actions. I need you to lie down like a good little supervisor."

"You could tie me down," Cuddy suggested happily, flopping back on the sofa, her breasts jiggling under the thin material of her dress. "Isn't that what the ER does for some of the non-cooperative cases?" Carefully she reached her hands up over her head to the end of the sofa. House thrust his chin out, blinking a little.

"You're waaaaay too willing, Cuddy. So either 'luudes do a major peel back on your conservative mindset, or you're a closet bondage player." He sighed mournfully. "Damn it, either scenario works for me."

"Are you going to tie me up or not?" Cuddy demanded in a voice that made his stomach tighten again. House looked around the office, as much to stop looking at Cuddy lying on the sofa as anything else. His glance slid over the coat stand, where her jacket and scarf were hanging, and he flexed his fingers. Cuddy followed his gaze and closed her eyes humming a little to herself.

"I really shouldn't do this . . ." he confessed thickly. "On the other hand, if I let you stumble off to a board policy meeting in this condition--I'd be failing my duty as a doctor."

"Ohh thas' right. Board meeting . . . " Cuddy muttered, frowning. She slowly began sitting up again, but House made his decision. With one quick hop he'd leaned over to snag the scarf from the stand, then moved around the coffee table towards Cuddy. She was muttering now, her brows drawing together.

" . . . Tell that Janet Cosovi exactly where to get off too, I tell you. She's one gold-plated ice-hearted bitch, you know? Wanted to cut playroom funding because and I quote 'we aren't in th' business of enter-TAIN-ing patients here at Prince'on Plainsboro. Unquote. I think I'll just go unquote her bony withered ass—" She grumbled.

Kneeling hurt, but House gently pushed her back down and looped the scarf into a slipknot. Carefully, he tucked one of Cuddy's hands into the first loop, and then the other in the matching one, then tied the ends of the scarf neatly through the arm of the sofa, talking the entire time. "Cosovi's a bean counter and a dried-up old prune," He agreed. "Not the poster girl for fun in anyone's book. So if you're going to get into a good catfight with someone, make it Cameron. You can take her, and I can guarantee you a major audience for that match," House whispered dramatically.

"Cam'ron, huh?" Cuddy snorted. "You'd LIKE that—"

He gave a quick dreamy look in the distance. "Well if you're offering, I have a birthday coming up."

Cuddy blew a wet raspberry, but the vibration made her break into a laugh. She tugged on her hands, and looked up at them, surprised. House got up and sat on the edge of the sofa, next to her hip.

"You tied me up!" she muttered, astonished. House gave a little shrug.

"I know, I know—we're rushing. I should have sent flowers; taken you out to Sorrentino's for dinner where we both could have gotten a little tipsy and gone back to your place, but I'm on-call for the lab for the results of your urine. While I'm here, you don't mind if I go through your purse, do you?"

"Greg—" Cuddy whispered, and the tiny choked sound of his name tinged with sultry heat made him close his eyes tightly. "Come here."

"Lisa—" he muttered back in a low, serious voice. It hurt to look at her lying there, so wild and sweet, like some Bacchanalian party girl in her rumpled flowered dress, and her curly hair awry. With her hands over her head, the curve of her breasts strained against the fabric, and bulged along her cleavage. It would be so easy to bend down and lick that sweet wet seam, House knew. And Lisa would be ticklish and laugh; she'd rock her hips up because she wanted it right now, yes she did. He could see the dampness on her upper lip, could smell the faint hint of musk along her skin and damn it when did it get so hard to concentrate on methaqualone overdose . . .

He bent down, telling himself he was going to check her pupils.

Cuddy sighed and surged up, kissing him awkwardly; catching his lower lip and chin with her mouth, but House turned and her lips slid against his, pressing in quick, silent hunger.

And then it wasn't silent anymore. Cuddy groaned, opening her slick mouth under his, and House kissed her back, plunging into a quick probe of tongue to tongue, tasting the warm tang of Lisa, the lovely slurp of lips on lips a light sound in the quiet office.

House kissed her again, feeling an urgency, a greedy hunger for this one God-given opportunity, this single chance to possess that smart-alec sexy pout, to tease that taunting little tongue of hers and shut her up the way he'd fantasized about doing for ages . . .

"Jesus, Greg; what happened to the sock on the doorknob?"

Wilson broke in, "And oh God—have you got Cuddy TIED UP?"

Cuddy looked over House's shoulder and smiled naughtily. "Hi Jimmy!"

House drew a deep breath. "This isn't what it looks like," he began, knowing immediately it was a losing battle.

"Oh really? Well, not that I'm known for a vivid imagination, but I'd believe you more if you didn't have Cuddy's lipstick all over your mouth," Wilson responded tartly, his expression caught between envy and unabashed amusement at House's discomfort.

With embarrassed annoyance House tugged at one end of the scarf and wiped his face while Cuddy giggled in a throaty fashion. Fascinated Wilson walked over, his arms crossed over his chest.

"So— if this isn't bondage lite in the afternoon, what IS it supposed to be?"

"This isn't bondage," Cuddy agreed dreamily, "Nope, nope nope. No blindfold, no feathers, no paddles . . . "

Both men stared at her for a moment, nonplussed. House's eyebrow went up. Cuddy licked her lips. "No choc-o-late sauc-ee."

"I . . . don't want to know—" Wilson muttered, holding up his hands, as if to ward off her words. House leaned closer.

"I do. What kind of choc-o-late sauc-ee, Doctor Cuddy?"

"Dove," came her happy murmur. "Richer than sin, but ooooh so worth it. Now I'm hungry . . ." she trailed off petulantly. House turned back to look at Wilson, wincing slightly as he picked up his cane from the carpet.

"I need you to let the board know Doctor Cuddy is indisposed and won't be making the meeting today."

"What, and leave you two alone here with terms like chocolate sauce and bondage still in the air?" Wilson snapped back. House rolled his eyes, but his voice was low and serious for once.

"Cuddy's stoned out of her mind, and I'm pretty sure the culprit is Qualuudes. Where she got them or why she took them I don't know. What I DO know is that if she stumbles into the board meeting and asks THEM if they'd like to lick chocolate sauce off of her cute little . . . "

"--Okay, okay, I GET the picture," Wilson grumbled, running a hand through his hair. "What's going to happen to her? We can't just keep her tied up on the couch—people are bound to notice that sort of thing."

House glanced back at Cuddy, giving a sigh. "She's out. She'll probably be budgeting sheep for about the next seven to ten hours, so all we have to do is wait until after five before we shuttle her home. Our Dean will be powernapping for a while, and then wake up none the worse for her little trip through Chemical Funland."

Wilson pursed his mouth and glanced at Cuddy, who was sleeping soundly now, her chest slowly rising and falling in deep even breathing. "You know, it's far more likely she didn't take them voluntarily. Cuddy isn't exactly known for her wild streak."

"True—that is, up until she started talking about paddles and choc-o-late sauce. I wonder if Doctor Partypants here has an account with like YOU do," Wilson shot back, wincing. House made an innocent face.

"Not me, although anything I might know about kinky fun under the Big Top comes from purely academic research. Go—make excuses to the board and I'll make sure nobody else sees the head of the hospital in zombie mode."

"This is because we danced, isn't it?" Wilson sulked. "Because Cuddy and I boogied--and you can't."

"Dancing is for chimpanzees," House intoned loftily. "There are easier ways to get your banana peeled."

Shaking his head in disgust, Wilson turned and left, closing the office door behind him. House waited a few minutes, then rose and locked the door. He fished out his cell phone and dialed, keeping his back to the sleeping woman.

"Chase—the minute the tox report for a patient named Ramp shows up I want you to bring it to Cuddy's office. I'm . . . tied up with her here but I need those results when they come in. Slip them under the door."

Dimly Cuddy opened her eyes, feeling herself shift position. She blinked and let herself loll against a warm shoulder, smelling the hints of fabric softener in the tee shirt under her nose. The other, more enticing scent made her grin.

House.

He had a nice body musk; clean and slightly athletic, probably chock full of pheromones. Her arms came up, and someone pulled on them.

"Up we go—come on Cuddy—" came a little grunt in her ear. Cuddy laughed, and it turned into a little whoop of surprise as she rose up, up and over, dangling and looking down the strong lines of House's back to his ass.

Heh. Not a bad view at all. She felt him circle his left arm up around her waist.

"Whyyyyyyy am I over your shoulllllllder?" Cuddy managed, proud that the sentence made sense. She let her arms dangle down against the back of his coat. House grunted again.

"Because you can't possibly walk, and I haven't got a wheelchair at the moment, and the only way I can get you out of here and keep my balance to any degree is to do it this way," House explained in a semi-reasonable tone of voice. "Your one hundred and three pounds provide a counterweight to my cane."

"I can see your ass," she singsonged playfully.

"I can touch yours; makes us even for the moment. Okaaaay, time to get moving . . ."

Cuddy closed her eyes because watching the floor made her dizzy, and because House's shoulder was pressing hard into her stomach. It wasn't too uncomfortable, not when his free arm was braced against the backs of her thighs. She hummed a little, turning her head and feeling her hair draping down.

"Where are we goooooooing?"

"To bed. You were a bad girl and took drugs."

"Nuh Unh."

"Yeah huh. Found the bottle in your purse, chock full of what looks like Ibuprophen but isn't. I didn't know your dentist likes to sedate in style. Here we go, outside."

Cuddy shivered; it was dark, and cold. She tensed, but House kept walking, the shift of his steps uneven but steady. His hand slid to her ass, fingers spreading possessively. "Don' you grope me, House—" she chided him weakly.

"Moi? Groping? I'm merely trying to keep you from shifting. Jesus Cuddy--why the hell did you have to park a mere twenty miles from your office today?"

"Walk does me good—" Cuddy slid her hands down his back, feeling the shift of his ass as House walked along. He cleared his throat warningly.

"Who's groping now? I could file harassment you know."

"Over my deaaaaad body."

"Feels like it."

She closed her eyes again.

The next time Cuddy opened her eyes it was still dark. She recognized her bedroom and a sense of instant comfort flooded her.

Home. Home was safe, and if she was here it meant she'd gotten here . . . and was safe. Muzzily she tried to sit up, but it seemed to take forever, and her head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. The mattress on her bed felt weird, dipping in the middle, and it was only when she managed to reach vertical that she realized someone else was in bed with her.

Ohhhhhhh God.

She turned, looking over at the long unconscious form of House as he lay sprawled on her queen-sized mattress, his breathing slow and heavy. Cuddy could make out the dim lines of his shape through the faint light coming through the drawn bedroom curtains. He lay there as if he owned the bed, and annoyance rose up in her, welling through the layers of fuzz in her brain.

Great. House was in bed with her. Did they--? Discreetly she did a quick sensory survey, relieved to realize she was in her nightgown and wearing both underwear and socks. House himself was in his teeshirt and a ludicrous pair of boxers with little green hula dancers all over them. Idly Cuddy wondered where the hell he'd gotten those—a vacation with Stacy? A bad Christmas present?

Then she realized that if he was in his boxers, it meant he'd taken off his pants, and THAT insight made her grit her teeth. What gave him the audacity to just limp in and make himself comfortable? Cuddy slowly began to climb out of the bed, deciding that she'd better take care of her full bladder first.

After she'd finished and washed her hands, she stumbled back out into the bedroom, not nearly as steady as she wanted. House was awake and lying on his side, head propped on one elbow, watching her. Here in the semi-darkness she couldn't quite catch his expression, but it wasn't hard to imagine.

"You need to get out of my bed," she croaked at him, swaying a little as she reached to brace herself on the mattress. House gave a soft grunt and reached out, patting the sheets with his free hand.

"Too late—you can't renege on your invitation. Get back in here before you get cold."

"I didn't invite you to . . . sleep over."

"Yes you did. You invited me to do a lot more than this, but it's late, I'm tired and all the condoms in your nightstand are out of date. Tsk—and I was so sure the micro-manager in you would have restocked, even if you aren't currently schtupping anyone."

"You—" Cuddy swayed, her outrage so great she could barely get the words out, "You . . . LOOKED in my nightstand?"

House's chuckle rumbled out in the semi-darkness; a low, smug sound. "I've looked a lot of places, Cuddy—you KNOW that."

"You evil rotten son of a bitch! How DARE you just . . . " she hesitated, not quite sure of what to accuse House of, in fact. He sighed.

"How dare I just get you home safely and discreetly, making sure you were medically monitored during your little Luude-a-bye session here? Gosh, it might have something to do with that Hippocratic Oath I took. Okay, that and the fact that you have Oreos in your cupboard."

"Don't get crumbs in my sheets," Cuddy snapped automatically. House rolled over onto his back, sighing.

"I liked you better when you were drugged up and coming on to me."

"I never came on to you!"

"You did."

"Did NOT."

"Did."

"No WAY, House!" Cuddy snarled. He folded his hands behind his head and mugged at her.

"Waaay, Cuddy—not that it actually matters at this mooty moot point. It's three in the morning, and I'm pretty sure you're probably hungry and dehydrated, so I'd suggest some chicken soup. I like Saltines with mine, thanks."

Cuddy stood quivering, realizing the trap even as it sprang on her.

With a growl she chose to retreat, and turned, making her way to the kitchen in the dark. It was a bumpy trip, and she reached it slowly, flicking on the light and resting her back against the wall for a moment, wishing House hadn't been right about the hunger.

The cupboard held two cans of Progresso Chicken and Vegetable. Cuddy dumped them in a glass bowl and microwaved it for three minutes as she sat in one of the chairs, rubbing her face. She fetched a bottle of water from the fridge and drank it thirstily just as the microwave dinged. Looking up, Cuddy noticed House standing in the doorway, gripping it since he'd limped in without his cane.

"Is it soup yet?"

"This is MY soup," she snapped, glaring at him. He ignored her expression and made a beeline for the fridge, pulling a box of crackers from on top of it. He opened the wax package and lurched to the table, setting them down as Cuddy took the soup out of the microwave. The warm scent of chicken and vegetables filled the air and House hummed appreciatively.

"Smells good, for canned."

"Get some mugs—" Cuddy ordered, moving carefully to the table.

They ate in silence, only the rattle of spoons and crunch of crackers around them. Cuddy tidily sipped, feeling the warmth transfer itself to her tummy. With a little sigh of satisfaction, she finished her mug and looked up to find House studying her from across the table. His scruff was darker in the overhead light, and his eyelashes were long and dark.

"According to the lab results, you had at least two 150 milligram doses of methaqualone in your system, thanks to your dentist's perky little assistant. It's a good thing you didn't take any more—you could have developed a drug habit," he finished with mock sanctimoniousness. Cuddy stared at him.

"Why did she give me Quaaludes?"

"Mix-up, apparently. She was storing her merchandise in your dentist's pharmacy cabinet for safekeeping, and apparently gave you the wrong bottle. Right now both she and your dentist are probably still talking to the police over this wacky little incident."

Cuddy pursed her lips, shaking her head. "God. Tompkins is close to retirement. I can't believe he'd be blamed."

House shrugged. "He might not be—not up to you or me at this point. What I DO know is that you'll be a little groggy and dehydrated for the next few hours as you settle back into your normal, uptight self, more's the pity."

Cuddy rubbed her forehead, still annoyed, but feeling more than that. She closed her eyes a long moment and sighed. "How much of a fool did I make of myself?"

She expected the salacious details; the chuckles, the pointed comments and excruciating faux pas spelled out, but when she opened her eyes, House was still staring at her, his gaze deep and endlessly blue.

"What do you remember?" he probed softly. Cuddy bit her lip.

"I remember yelling at you from the bridge, and visiting Peranja's lab, and the kids up in the playroom, but after that, things start fuzzing up. I'm pretty sure I gave you a urine sample . . ." she made a face. House snorted a little.

"Ah yes, no bashful kidney syndrome for YOU. And after that, do you remember going back to your office?"

Cuddy frowned, concentrating. She ran a hand through her hair, raking it with her long fingers. "Sort of . . . I was thinking about . . . about the Eighties. I think."

"You asked me who I fantasized about when I masturbated back then," House reminded her with glee. Cuddy's eyes widened, and she made a moue.

"Why would I even CARE?"

House lifted his chin. "No clue. The thought that you were even thinking about me spanking Hank is still pretty mind-boggling to me. I mean come on—I'm a guy. I'm SUPPOSED to think about you in a bed playing with a vibrator with my name on it, but YOU—"

"I DON'T think about you . . . self-pleasuring!" Cuddy snapped, her face flushing. "And my vibrator does NOT have your—" too late she stopped herself, but House slowly grinned, looking at her from under his brows.

"Oooh the prosecution rests, your honor. I suggest we retire and go examine Exhibit A . . . "

Cuddy rose, picking up the soup mugs with a controlled ferociousness. "You're disgusting."

"And you were horny. Quaaludes aren't called 'Panty Peelers' for nothing, you know. Among the listed side effects are a loss of inhibition and euphoria, Cuddy. You had enough in your system to break down some of your buttoned-up bean counting self-control. You flashed me, took off your bra, grabbed my ass, let me tie you to your sofa and kissed the hell out of me. Oddly enough, I liked most of that."

"You tied me to my SOFA?" Cuddy blanched, nearly dropping her mug. House reached out and cupped his hand over hers, holding the bowl up.

"Only after you suggested it," he pointed out helpfully. "And you fell asleep about ten minutes later."

"Oh my God—" Cuddy felt herself begin to hyperventilate. "Oh my God, this will mean an investigation, most likely an inquiry by the Ethics board, I'll be reprimanded . . ."

"Nobody saw you," House interrupted, rising himself and taking the soup bowls from her. "I carried you out, I drove you home in your own car, got you into your nightgown and put you to bed, all of it MUCH less fun than it sounds like. To reward myself I scarfed some Oreos and rummaged through your DVDs—can I borrow your copy of _Cleopatra Jones?_

"That belongs to Netflix," Cuddy began, then turned to watch House put the dishes in the sink. "God I can't believe this—why? Why would you even DO this, House?"

"I'm not. I hate dishes," he shot back over his shoulder. Cuddy threw a 'give me strength' look to the ceiling and stepped over to him, searching his face carefully.

"You know what I mean," she enunciated carefully. "And I know you haven't got an altruistic bone in your body, Greg. Anything you do is motivated by self-interest to some degree. Is this so I'll . . . owe you something?"

House looked her over, his expression slightly distracted. He sighed. "On behalf of Wilson, I'm making a plea for the Howard X. Murgatroyd bench."

Cuddy blinked a little, and the corner of her mouth went up just a fraction. "You're kidding."

"Nope. See, Jimmy doesn't get out much, and it's nice for him to have something to look forward to—"

"Something for you both to look forward to," Cuddy groused. "Tell you what—I'll leave the bench, I'll just have it moved back about three feet."

House sighed, and looked down at her again, reluctantly smiling himself. "And she's back, ladies and gentleman, yes, the evil Empress has returned to the building."

Cuddy yawned, and looked at the kitchen clock, which read three fifteen in the morning. She gave House a pointed stare, but he shook his head. "We took your car, so I don't have a ride home, and I wouldn't trust you to drive just yet. Come on--back to bed."

With that he limped towards the door, and Cuddy reluctantly followed.

It was a little awkward, but House chose to ignore that as he stretched out again on the mattress and flexed his leg a bit. He wasn't due for another dose of Vicodin for at least two hours, and at the moment things felt pretty good. Next to him he could feel Cuddy lying stiffly on her side, her back a long ridge of tension under the covers.

"Unclench already, Cuddy—sheesh," he commented softly. She stirred slightly and her reply was muffled.

"You're taking up the whole thing."

"You're thinking I'm going to make a move on you. Part of you is worried I will, and part of you is worried I won't. Just relax and go to sleep."

"Oh, NOW I know what's taking up all the room. It's your damned EGO," Cuddy growled, finally rolling to face him. "You're so impressed with your nobility and so sure that I'm going to be forever grateful for it that you feel you've got the right to be smug."

There was a quiet pause in the room. House turned his head and studied Cuddy's face gently. "How long has it been since you last got laid?"

Cuddy's gaze narrowed, and she moved to lunge at him, but House was faster, pulling her to him and rolling, pinning her under his body with just enough weight to hold her there.

He pressed the palm of his hand over her mouth and spoke rapidly, quietly into her face. "Listen to me, Lisa. I know that everything you said and did this afternoon was because of the drugs in your system. I'm not going to lie and say it wasn't a hoot to see you hot to trot. Distracting? Hell yeah. Tempting? Incredibly. But I'm not enough of an idiot to actually believe that you meant any of it. Despite your paranoia, you need to accept that I don't take advantage of patients, especially of judgmentally challenged ones."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at him, breathing hard against his palm, her hands pushing on his shoulders. House scowled at her. "Got it?"

She nodded, and he pulled his hand back, still staring at her, feeling a rush of desire and anger, mingling in his veins like prickly heat, making him all too aware of the body under his, of the contours and scents of this woman. Then Cuddy's fingers curled around his biceps, and her harsh whisper came out, low and strained.

"Two and a half years."

House cocked his head, aware of what she was saying; admitting to him in her hushed little confession. He breathed in her face.

"Thirty months? What, was there a vow of celibacy that came with getting rid of Vogler?"

"You're a doctor, you know as well as I do that there's never any TIME, Greg. I spend more hours with paperclips and memos than I do with men—at least ones outside the hospital. And that's been fine with me up until the last few months."

"Until you decided you wanted a baby," House clarified, shifting a little on top of her. There was a sheet between them but it didn't stop much sensation at all, and he could feel himself throb a bit, pressing against her hip. Cuddy pressed her mouth in a tight line, but nodded.

"Exactly. Still need a man to make one, according to biology."

"True. But if you can't manage a relationship with a guy, what makes you think you'll have time for a baby?" House asked in a reasonable tone. Cuddy laughed, and it sounded like a soft sob.

"Because then I won't have a choice, Greg. I can't put a baby on hold, or reschedule a diaper change. Don't you get it? A baby will help me get back at least a piece of what I've given up these last ten years. I'll be needed for what I am, not who I am. And I'll have a chance to . . . " she trailed off, dangerously close to tears. House lowered his face and pressed his lips against her temple, the soft scratch of his beard a tickle against her skin.

"A chance to love someone. Yeah, I get it. It's not enough to be devoted to an entire hospital in the abstract—you want something a little more personal."

Which was a growing problem; things were already getting personal, House reflected with an inner groan. It had been nearly six months since his last rendezvous with the escort service; a habit he'd vowed to break after the Ketamine. Having the warm and welcoming form of Lisa Cuddy under him was rapidly becoming one hell of a distraction. He attempted to shift off of her, but his hips moved the wrong way; forward.

Cuddy moaned.

That was bad, because that little throaty sound began to erode his good intentions, and somehow his lips were still on her face, and her hands were sliding up his shoulders now, gripping them possessively, and there was certainly some fun with friction going on down below . . .

And then Cuddy turned her head and House felt the flare between them ignite, hard and hot as he let her kiss him again, here in the darkness of her bedroom.

It should have stopped, but House couldn't get back to anything, not when Cuddy's hot little tongue was licking his teeth, wriggling deep in his mouth and making his balls tighten. He groaned, feeling the relentless hunger of his lust tainted with surprise and wariness, but both began to fade when Cuddy whispered against his lips.

"You told me . . . to find someone I liked. So here it is, Greg. I like you."

"Lisa—" he protested automatically, but his hips kept pushing against hers, rocking with hers through the sheet. Her hands came up to cup his thin cheeks and he loved the cool feel of them on his hot face. She kissed him lightly, trailing her tongue over his mouth.

"Not asking for love, or commitment. Just . . . some of this—" Cuddy pleaded in that throaty voice of hers, and House closed his eyes, his stomach clenching hard on hers.

"This. I can do this---oh yeahhh—" he muttered dizzily. "Believe me, I'm good to go here—"

"Will you?" Cuddy asked sweetly, and House dropped his face to kiss her brazenly, his tongue sliding against hers in ruthless response.

It took a moment of cursing and fumbling to pull the damned sheet back, to get untangled amid the twists of clothing and pillows. Cuddy had the grace to laugh, and hearing it, House took a breath, feeling as if angel feathers had brushed his nose.

After that it was simple. Cuddy's body was compact and beautifully muscled, curvy and warm. The thicket of curls between her thighs surprised House; he would have bet she was the sort who shaved, but this sexy surprise aroused him even more, and he stroked the downy soft fur, marveling at the glossiness of it. Cuddy splayed a hand over herself, protesting a little.

"It's a little untrimmed, I know—"

"Shut up. It's perfect," House growled back, amused at her modesty. He shifted his fingers gently, feeling the heat and slickness of her arousal, gliding his touch along the petals of her sex in delicate strokes. "I'm old school-- happen to be fond of bush if you MUST know."

Cuddy tried to shoot him an annoyed look, but it was impossible while she was on her back and House was on his right side, toying with her relentlessly. She rolled left to face him, reaching down to catch his erection, her fingers looping around the veiny thickness of it. House's mouth opened slightly, and she laughed then, slowly stroking him.

"Wow—I've finally found the way to make you speechless," she remarked gently. House gave a dangerous smirk and pulled her closer, so their hips were touching now, her hand caressing him even as his shaft stroked against her fur.

"Oh I could have suggested this long ago, but I was pretty sure you wouldn't go for it," he replied thickly. "Speaking of going for it—still sure?"

In answer, Cuddy slid her leg over his hip and shifted herself, gently rubbing the head of his erection where his fingers had been. House bit back a gasp, and let his hand cup around her sleek ass, yanking her to him and thrusting. Cuddy gave a low cry, her mouth against his Adam's apple, her leg tightening around his unscarred thigh.

Quivering, they both paused, caught in the delicious scalding heat of that first slow plunge, united; stomach to stomach, wrapped in the darkness and damp with musky sweat. House pressed his mouth to her forehead, lips moving in a soft whisper. "G-Give me a few seconds . . . "

Cuddy nodded, lost in the demanding throb of him between her thighs, arrogantly big, stretching her; making her ache in lust and pain at the same time. She softly kissed the swell of his throat, and House growled, tightening his fingers over the curve of her bottom.

"Crap! I don't want to hurt you, and considering how Goddamned tight you are right now it's GOT to be a little uncomfortable. Just hold still a minute; get used to me, okay?" he told her hoarsely, fighting to master the urgent lust pounding at his temples, making his shaft swell thickly in the sweet squeeze of Cuddy's body. To buy a moment of time he added, "from my end, we're talking Hall of Fame here, Cuddy—DEFINITELY putting this in my diary."

"House—" Cuddy gasped, grinning as she tipped her face up to him, "Just get the meat cane moving, okay?"

"I . . . love dirty talk!" he gasped, and thrust. Cuddy rocked her hips against his, feeling breathless, clinging to him, hearing, feeling the deep slick slide of him into her, pistoning smoothly in strong strokes. House pulled her against him, and the rub of his fur against hers tickled in just the right angle to tease. She pushed against him, rocking hard now, the pain quickly morphing into a breathless low tension deep between her thighs through the next long minutes.

"Lisssssa . . ." House's voice was low and hollow; the sound of a man rapidly losing control. She slid a hand down between them, desperate now, and rubbed herself; House glanced down and groaned, hard and loud. "Oh fuck, that's soooo---" House gripped her ass tightly and thrust hard, rolling onto Cuddy, pinning her under the unstoppable drive of his body. She clung to him, and the sweet feel of his hot surges deep within her, combined with the pinned pressure of her hand against her little bud sent her over the top, spasming joyfully, her husky growl of pleasure mingling with House's grunts.

He was still in her when she woke up on top of him. It was hard to pull away; Greg's chest was wonderfully warm and surprisingly comfortable for all the boniness of the man. Groaning a little, Cuddy shifted, but one long arm pinned her down. House hadn't even opened his eyes, and yet she could feel the swift swell of him between her thighs.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Greg, we've done it three times in the last—" Cuddy stared blearily at the clock beside the bed, "—six hours. You're insatiable."

"I'm . . . thorough. You want to get pregnant, I'm just here to deliver." He snickered, but his hand stroked her spine gently. Cuddy laughed and gingerly slid away from him.

"I'm sore and saturated, thank you. At this rate I'll drown before I get pregnant," she scoffed gently. Wincing, she climbed out of bed and made her way to the French doors, opening one curtain. Sunlight streamed in, and House grunted, rolling over to bury his face in the pillows. Cuddy looked over her shoulder at him, and a rush of something shockingly sweet hit her chest at the sight of his lanky, vulnerable form under her coverlet. She made her way back to the bed and sat down, delicately to look at him. House glanced up at her face, his hair awry, his stubble darker. For a moment they locked gazes, strong and unflinching.

Cuddy took his hand. "Thank you."

House drew a deep breath. Lightly he tugged her hand to his mouth and kissed it in an unexpectedly courtly gesture.

"There is a balance to the universe; not one that we can recognize from any given place where we stand. You gave me something a long time ago that I didn't appreciate then, but I do now. Maybe that's what makes it easier for me to give you something back now."

Cuddy blinked, and the tender surge rose again in her chest. House sighed.

"Got any Pop tarts?" he demanded.

End


End file.
